When the Bough Breaks
by thinktink2
Summary: CONCLUSION - A musing of how the Christmas episode of the same title could turn out. Or what I'd like to see anyway. Spoilers for
1. Chapter One

When the Bough Breaks

RATING: PG.  Pretty benign,I think.

AN:  Hee, hee...This is my interpretation of the forthcoming ep, based on the information we were privy to in "Family Business."  I don't recall if there was ever a date given during the episode to orient us as to how far along the calendar we are in JAG world.  I'm assuming the episode, and Singer's departure, took place some time in the middle or so of August.  What transpired at the end of that episode simply could not be ignored by this opportunist! :-)  

This, as it says, is part one.  I don't intend to make this an epic like my other work (that truly is the goal.  Really).  This should be wrapped up in, at the very, very, most, two more parts.  Enjoy!

Part 1 

*Achoo!* 

"Gesundheit," I reply, taking in the miserable-looking spectacle that is my partner.  He pulls out a starched white hanky and presses it gently to his red nose.  "You're looking a little worse for wear, Commander."

He sniffles and moans something in response.  "Damn weather," I make out before another sneeze grips him.  The elevator dings and we step inside, both of us drifting to the back, not just to make room for others, but so we can have a little privacy, despite the obvious difficulties achieving that.

I spend a moment, as he reaches inside his pocket once again for the white, not quite as starched, hanky, examining his appearance.  He looks pale, except where his nose and cheeks are red.  His eyes are puffy and when he looks to me to give a glare for my scrutiny, I can see that they are watery, too.  Judging by the general slump of his shoulders and his haggard appearance, I would venture to say he hasn't slept well, if at all, in a couple of days.  

Quite frankly, he looks the most pitiful I've seen him, and that includes the time he spent in the hospital after being pulled from the Atlantic.

The normally intimidating (well, not to me) glare comes across more as a grudging plea for help and I take it as such.  Switching my briefcase and cover to one hand, I reach up with the other and press my palm against his forehead.  He feels a little warm and I'm certain he's at least running a low-grade fever.

"Harm, you should be at home in bed."

"Dime find," he responds dismissively.

"What?"

"Dime find," he says again.  I pause, trying to conjure up what he could possibly be referring to.

"I don't follow, Harm."  Maybe he's much sicker than I thought.  I press my hand against his forehead again in reassessment.  Yup, he _does_ seem warmer.

"Dime…find…" he grounds out, jerking his head away in annoyance and swaying, just a little, from the sudden movement.  Then it hits me what he's trying to say.

"No, you are _not_ fine.  Harm, you can barely stand."

"Dime find, Mac.  Bust a head code."

"You should be home in bed," I scold, wondering how he possibly drove this way to work, and thankful he made it in one piece.

"Di hab things to boo tobay, Mac.  Besides, Di took domething for it," he adds, as though that should satisfy me.  He shuffles a little to his right, away from me, and I shuffle along with him, earning another pathetic look of annoyance. 

"Mac."

"Harm, go home.  You look terrible."

"Di can't.  Di hab court."

"You can ask for a postponement."

"Di bon't want to," he says stubbornly.  "Di feel find."

"Commander, you look like hell.  What are you doing here?" Our CO interrupts the debate as we step out of the elevator and into the bullpen.

"Di work here, sir."

The admiral gives him a look.  I shuffle away from Harm, deciding that if he wants to be petulant and irritable to our commanding officer, he can do it alone.  

"A fact that can be changed rather easily with the right paperwork, Commander."

"Bes sir.  Sorry."

"Hmph.  Are you feeling all right?  You look rather pale."

"Bust a head code, sir.  Dits nothing.  Di took dumb mebication for it.  Di should be bokay in a cubble hours or doe."

"What?" The admiral crosses his arms and his brow furrows in confusion.

"He said it's just a head cold sir.  He took some medication for it and he should be okay in a couple hours or so."

The admiral gives me a look of incredulity, his eyebrow arching in disbelief.  "I don't know how you do it, Colonel."

"What?  Understand what he's saying?"

"No, put up with him.  You should be home, Commander," he says and walks off, shaking his head.  I cross my own arms and give him a pointed look.  _See?_

He rolls his eyes and the gesture almost causes his eyes to water.  He disappears inside his office with a sneeze.  A moment later I hear another one follow.  And another.

I stand at his doorway watching him fumble with the no longer as white, and as-starched handkerchief.  After dabbing a little less gently at his tender nose he raises his eyes to me.

"All bight, look.  Dile go home afber court, bokay?"

"You'd better.  And you'd better let me drive you."

"Mac, Di can drive byself."

"I don't think so, and don't argue with me, flyboy," I add warningly, seeing that he is about to.  "You can just consider it part of your Christmas present."

"Hmph."

"Now, now.  I make an _excellent_ Nurse Nightengale," I add with a mischievous smile before sauntering out and closing the door behind me, but not before seeing the expression on his face.

He looks a little less miserable.

***********

I shuffle along the hallway thinking of how much I enjoy the Christmas season.  The snow, which has come early this year, blanketing the ground in a wet cushion of white.  The lights, the tree, the mall and D.C. at Christmas time.  The presents.  Okay, I admit it.  I love presents.  The songs of Christmas and nights spent around a warm fire, wrapped up in a blanket, sipping cocoa and staring at the tree lights and decorations, imagining my handsome sailor adorned in a Santa suit.  Well, maybe just the hat.  My handsome sailor adorned _only_ with a Santa hat.  Now there's a nice dream.  Christmas cookies and candies.

Mistletoe.

I bought some of my own this year and hung it just inside my kitchen doorway yesterday.  Harm's always bustling about in my kitchen and I'm always trying to shoo him out.  Now maybe we can have a little extra fun fighting over the space.  I smile at the thought.  First, I'll have to nurse him to health.  Or at least make sure the stubborn squid gets some rest and some fluids.

I walk into the bullpen from a meeting with a client and notice everyone standing in front of the television monitors.  

"Harriet, what's going on?"

"Turn it up!"  Someone calls, and Tiner steps forward and stretches to reach the volume button of the middle monitor.

A ZNN reporter, a woman I don't recognize, is standing on the flight deck of a carrier.  In the left hand corner of the screen, small white lettering identifies the ship as the USS _Seahawk_.  In the right hand corner, bold block letters notify viewers that this is a "LIVE" broadcast.

"I'm Teresa Maller on board the carrier _Seahawk_ in the Arabian Sea," the woman reports.  "Seven months ago a member of the _Seahawk's_ crew was seriously injured.  An officer, Lieutenant Bud J. Roberts of the JAG Corps, lost his leg below the knee after stepping on a land mine in Afghanistan."

The screen flashes an official picture of Bud and I can't help but smile at the young Bud Roberts smiling back.  I nudge Harriet with my shoulder and she smiles nervously, uncertain as the rest of us, where this report might lead.

"After the Navy accidentally destroyed a local school, Lieutenant Roberts and his legalman helped to secure funds to build another.  On the way to the ground-breaking ceremony, the lieutenant noticed a little boy standing in a mine zone.  While trying to prevent serious harm coming to the child, the lieutenant stepped on a mine.  The child escaped harm, but the lieutenant found himself facing an uphill battle of rehabilitation and uncertainty."  

The reporter pauses poignantly to allow the drama of that statement to sink in and I see the admiral step beside me with arms crossed over his chest.

"Lieutenant Roberts was awarded the purple heart and stands to earn another medal for his meritorious service aboard the _Seahawk_.

"Another JAG was sent out to the carrier to assume the lieutenant's former duties.  Things aboard the carrier were running fairly smoothly up until four weeks ago, when crew members began noticing peculiar behavior from the new resident JAG."  

Harriet, the admiral and I all exchange glances.  Sturgis joins the soiree, "What's going on?"

"Shhh," someone responds.

"Finally things came to a head two days ago, when, during a critical juncture in a mission, the lieutenant lost consciousness."

Someone laughs and quickly covers it up with a cough when the admiral looks towards the noise.

"After being taken to sickbay, the doctors found the lieutenant to be dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion."

"I guess Singer needs to pace herself if she wants to take over the whole ship," I remark quietly and both Harriet and the admiral snort.  Sturgis smiles.

"But that's not all.  The JAG officer, Lieutenant Loren Singer, is 16 weeks pregnant."  

There's a collective gasp and a brief moment of silence, broken by the sound of a very loud thud.  Harriet, Sturgis, the admiral and I all glance behind us in confusion.

Harm is passed out cold on the floor.


	2. Chapter Two

"Oh, Christ," the admiral mutters resignedly, rolling his eyes heavenward and staring at Harm's prone form lying in a heap on the office floor.  Sturgis, Harriet and I quickly kneel down next to him.

"Harm?  Can you hear me?  Harm?"  I gently pat his cheek and receive a welcome groan in response.  His eyes flutter open and I swear I see them roll around several times in his head before they finally come to focus on me.  He blinks a few times, his gaze never leaving my eyes before he becomes aware that Sturgis, Harriet, and the admiral are hovering nearby, and that he's also claimed the attention of most of the office—quite a feat, I'd say, considering the astonishing news about Singer.

Noticing everyone's interest, he quickly attempts to sit up.

"Careful!" I warn as he almost flops back down.  

"Ngghh," he moans, clutching his head.

"I wouldn't get in too much of a hurry, Harm.  You probably hit your head against the tile when you fainted," Sturgis adds.

"Fainted?  Ide didn't faint," he grumbles, sounding less nasal than earlier.

"Like a schoolgirl, sir," Tiner insists with a grin, earning a snort from the admiral and a dirty look from Harm.

"Oh, and just what would you call it?" I ask.

"Ide just…" he winces, and rubs a spot on the back of his head.  

"You just…" 

"My legs went out from udder me, doekay?"

"Harm.  You fainted."

He scowls again and slowly attempts a standing position.

"Harm, maybe you should just sit for a minute and—"

"Mac, I'm find, doekay?  See?"  He rises unsteadily to his feet, with both Sturgis and I hovering at his elbows.  

Seeing that their senior attorney will apparently live, the few onlookers that hadn't already turned their attention back to the screen when Harm first came to, return to the story aboard the _Seahawk_.  Risking a glance, I see that the reporter has sidelined the public affairs officer and is interviewing him.  Harm follows my gaze to the television screen and listens intently, growing paler by the second.

A picture of Singer, dressed in COD gear standing on the flight deck, flashes on the screen, next to another one, showing a incriminating paunch stretching the seams of her uniform.

"Ohhh, I think I'm going to be sick," Harm moans.  He clutches his stomach with one hand and turns and slinks off towards his office.  

**********

"Feel any better?" I ask, rubbing his back and shoulders with my left hand as I lean over him.  Harm's sitting in his desk chair, his head buried in his arms, lying on his desk.  I want to run my hand through his hair, run a finger behind his ear and tuck in a strand of hair out of line with the others.  Harriet and Sturgis are in here, and Tiner just left to get some juice for Harm, so at the moment I'm at my limit for soothing gestures that fall in the "just friends/coworkers" range.

"Gnugh," he replies, which I take to mean no.

"I wonder who the father is?  Do you know how drunk a guy would have to be before sleeping with Singer would be appealing?"  Harriet asks, and we all look at her—even Harm, who raises his head to regard her comment before swallowing heavily and returning his head to its former position on the desk.

"Actually, ma'am," Tiner says, returning with a glass of juice and handing it to me, "if you remember what she wore to the colonel's engagement party she cleans up pretty nice, to say the least."  

Harm makes a sound like he might throw up at any second and Harriet quickly produces a waste can at his side.  

"Here you are, sir," Harriet says helpfully.

"Danks, Harriet," he mutters without looking at either the trashcan or Harriet.

"What I want to know," Sturgis begins, "is how long the lieutenant thought she could hide her pregnancy?  Did she honestly expect that no one would notice?"

"She's four months along," I murmur, "that's about the exact amount of time she's been gone.  She must have…gotten pregnant right before she left."

We all mull that information in silence, except for Harm who moans like he's in agony.

"Harm, you really need to go home and rest.  You are not feeling well."

"No kibbing.  You are not helbing, Mac," I think he mutters into his sleeve, but I can't be sure if I've heard him right, what with his muffled _and_ nasal voice, and Sturgis talking.

"You're not considering the possibility that she could have become pregnant while aboard the ship?" Sturgis argues.

Harriet, Tiner, and I all give him an incredulous look.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harriet says, "but have you _met_ Lieutenant Singer?"

"Really, Sturgis, given how far along she is she would have had to had relations almost immediately upon boarding the ship," I return.  "What are the odds?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, sir," Tiner interrupts, "what are the odds of this happening _period_?"

"About a million to one," I concede.

"Try a billion," Harriet says.  "Singer as a mother."  She shakes her head disbelievingly.

"Wait 'til Gunny hears about this.  He owes me a bottle of scotch," Tiner announces gleefully.  Harriet, Sturgis and I frown.

"Where's that trashcan?" Harm asks, looking around worriedly.  

"Have we determined whether or not Commander Rabb will live today?" The admiral interjects, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Yes, sir," we all chorus, snapping to, except for Harm.

"Jury's still out," Harm mutters, just loud enough so I can hear, before rising to his feet.  He only sways a little before I discreetly reach out an arm and steady him.

 "As you were," the admiral commands and Harm slumps down in his chair again, reaching into his pants pocket for his handkerchief, which, like my sailor, looks as if it has seen better days.

"Good, then I don't have to remind all of you that we still have a job to perform."

"No, sir," We reply, except for Harm who sniffles noisily.  The admiral fixes him with a sharp look.  "Commander, finish up your report from court today and go home."

Harm nods, rather gratefully, I note with suspicion.  Something's up with him.  

"Colonel, see to it the commander gets there."

"Aye, sir."  Gladly.  Chauffeuring time is grilling time.

"Everyone else, tell the commander to get well and get back to work."

************

Bidding Harriet goodbye with a promise to call later, I usher everyone out of Harm's office and close the door behind them.  I turn to my sick best friend and partner and…whatever it is we are to each other now and regard him thoughtfully.

He has returned to his previous posture, head down over the desk, arms folded around him.  Crossing my arms over my chest and stand and wait patiently for a response.  It's not long in coming.

"Harriet's right."

"About what?"

"She got hib drunk and sebuced hib."

"We don't know that, Harm," I remind him.  "It could have been a completely consensual act."

"Ugh!  Bon't say thab." He says, horrified.  "She took abbantage of hib.  He was depressed and lonely and ubset with me and he probably drank too much and she saw the obbortunity and took it."

"Wait, what are you talking about?"

He looks away and I feel my eyes widen with surprise.

"You know who the father is?"

He looks down.

"You do!" I cry incredulously, unable to believe my ears.  Eyes.  Whatever.

"Who?  Who is he?"

He winces and looks out the frosted window.

"It's snowing abain," he comments.

"Hoorah," I reply, not giving an elf's hammer about the weather.  "Who?  Come on, Harm, you can tell me," I practically whine, but I can see he's wavering on whether to give in and I've always found whining to Harm quite successful.

"You knobe what's good in code weather?  Hob chocolate."

"Delicious.  Come on, Harm.  I'm your best friend, if you can't trust me who can you trust," I say, knowing that will illicit just enough guilt to sway him.  If he doesn't tell me then it's as though he _doesn't_ trust me, and I know there's no way he's going to allow for that miscommunication to wreck things between us.  I am taking ruthless advantage here, I fully admit, especially given his condition.

"Bokay.  You hab to promise nob to tell _anyone_, no matter what," he says sternly.  Or as sternly as one manage with a Rudolph nose, teary eyes and a voice like Elmer Fudd.

"Of course," I swear.

"'Cause I don't know for cerbain, but dime pretty sure… I mean, all signs seem to point thab way…" he trails off, putting his head in his hands.  "Ugh, dis is my worst nightmare come true.  Literally."

"What?  Just tell me, Harm."

He heaves a sigh and nods.  

"Bokay, you remember back in Aubust when Sergei wabs leaving and I wabs going to take him to the airport?"  

I nod.  "Well I gob there a libble late," he makes a gesture that seems to indicate he's aware that it's the norm for him, "and Sergei alreaby had his lubbage out on the curb."

I frown and nod wondering why this conversation is focusing so much on him and Sergei…

I swallow as my stomach tightens and I force myself to hear Harm out before jumping to any conclusions.

"He tolb me he had found someone to gib hib a ride and thab I didn't hab to bother.  A few minutes later, Singer dribes up."

Oh no.

My expression must give away my thoughts because he nods emphatically—"waib, it gets better.  Or worse, really," he adds to himself.

The knot in my stomach tightens almost painfully but I force myself to breathe and continue to listen with, I don't have to add, rapt attention.

"He dibn't come right oub and say it, but Mac!  He allubed that there was something…deeber going on…that something deeber _had_ gone on.  Mac, I think he slept wib her."

He looks at me with wide eyes and starts to babble about something but it's lost in a crash and a moment later I'm staring at the ceiling.

TBC…


	3. Chapter Three part 1

"How's your hot chocolate?" I ask, taking a sip of the deliciously warm liquid.

"Good," he responds, nodding his head.  We're both seated at his dinner table, he at the head of the table and me to his right.  He holds the coffee mug in both hands and looks over the rim at me with the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips.  "How's your, er, behind?" he asks, trying to bite down the smile.

I fix him with a warning look, which only widens his grin.  This is the thanks I get for being a good friend and listener.  

I took the news about Sergei fathering Singer's child a little hard.  Literally.  After Harm dropped that little bomb on me I felt it prudent to sit down.  I just didn't look to see whether there was a chair under me. 

Needless to say, there wasn't.

My bottom connected hard with the floor, and the rest of my body followed suit.  The noise of the fall (I also somehow managed to drag Harm's phone and a half dozen file folders and papers in its way off the desk with me) and Harm's cry of alarm brought the admiral, Harriet, and Sturgis bustling back into Harm's office.

After Harm helped me to my feet I realized the chair I had been aiming for was actually a little further behind and to the right of me.

Then, after getting as much of the story of what happened as I was willing to part with and still maintain my vow of silence to Harm and what little was left of my dignity, the admiral dismissed both of us with a long-suffering look and accompanying sigh, with orders to leave JAG—post haste.

I shake my head in remembrance as I consider Harm's question.  "Still a little sore," I admit.  I'm certain by tomorrow there will be a large bruise smack on my left cheek.

"Wanb me to rub ib for you?" he asks innocently and I almost snort cocoa through my nose.

I turn my head to glare at him and he hides his smile behind his mug as he takes a sip and waits for my answer.  I have half a mind to say yes just to see what he'll do—if anything just to see if he can break his current record for backpedaling out of a conversation—but since he's not feeling well, on top of the fact that his brother may be the father of Singer's love child, I decide to go easy on him.

"No, but thank you for the ***generous*** offer," I reply.  "I'm glad to see that passing out or O.D.-ing on cold medicine didn't affect you in anyway," I add, recollecting his grudging admission on the ride home to his apartment that maybe he shouldn't have taken a couple Sudafed and a couple Contact in addition to the half gallon of Nyquil he said he drank early this morning in an attempt to find relief and sleep.  Knowing this makes me even more thankful he made it to work without passing out at the wheel or causing an accident.  

It also makes me want to club him over the head.  He should know better, for pete's sake.

"Whab are frienbs for?" he returns with another grin, ignoring my jab.  I just shake my head, deciding it's best for both parties involved to let this topic die out.  The sound of his sneeze reverberating across the apartment brings me back to one of the reasons why we're here.

"I'd tell you to take something for your cold, but I understand you did.  Several somethings."

He rolls his eyes and sniffs.  "Look, the only reason Di 'passed out'—he makes quotations with his fingers—'is because Di habn't slept well since Tuesbay, so Di was tired, and Di dibn't have a good breakfast, and my head's all stobbed up from this stubid code, and Di tried tabing Nyquil last night, but it dibn't help, and it dibn't seem like the Subefed wabs doing anything, so Di took a cubble Contact, and then dits like they all kicked in at the same time."

"No, the reason you 'fainted like a schoolgirl,'"—I make quotations with my fingers, "as Tiner aptly put it, is because you're too stubborn to stay at home in bed, where you belong, when you're not feeling well."

"Mac, Di can take care ob myself."

"Oh, that's obvious.  Tell me again why you 'passed out'?"  How can the man _be_ so stubborn?

"And besibes, if I habn't had come to work tobay I woulbn't hab found out thab my brother helbed spawn the spawn of Saban.  Ugh," he groans, leaning back in his chair.

"Harm," I begin, only to be cut off by an oblivious Harm.

"I mean, a chilb wib Singer's genes ibs going to call me 'Uncle Harm.'"

That is a shuddering thought, and I do just that.  

"Can you imagine a libble Singer running around wib our kibs?" He shakes his head in horror and takes a sip of his coffee.

Kibs?

Kids?

Kids!  Our kids? _Our_ kids?  Kid-zzzyah?  Plural?  As in more than the one we agreed upon?  Unless he's just assuming that I'll miraculously get pregnant with twins when our deal comes due.  I wonder what goes on in that head of his.  Whatever it is, I like it.  Twins don't run in my family, though.  Unless they run in his.  Kids.  I grin giddily at the thought.

"This ibn't funny, Mac."

I yank myself from my thoughts, and shake my head in agreement.  No, of course not.

Kids.

Kidzzzzz.

Maybe a boy and a girl.  That would be nice.  If we _did_ have twins, I mean.  If we didn't, then I think I'd like our firstborn to be a little boy who looks like his father.  Oh, who am I kidding?  At my age—or the age I'll most likely be when (if) this happens—all I ask for is a healthy baby.  That looks like his father.

"Are you listening to a worb dime saying?" a strong nasal voice cuts in.

"Of course."

"Oh, gob, what is the admiral going to say when he fines out about dis?"

I wonder just how many kids Harm envisions us having?  Two?  Well, at least that many for there to be kidzzzz.  Three?  Depending when we get going on this having a family together thing, I might be quite agreeable to that.  Four?  Well, I hope he knows I'm not just some baby-making ma—

A large hand waves in front of my face derailing my train of thoughts.  I look up into Harm's slightly amused, slightly peeved, mostly watery, bloodshot and tired eyes.

"Um, sorry," I say blushing, hoping I haven't been daydreaming about domesticity with some goofy, lovey-dovey grin.

"Perhabs I should ask what you're thinking about?"

"Uh, I'm just wondering what you're going to do."  Good answer.  "So, um, what _are_ you going to do?"

He sighs in contemplation.  "Take ub drinking.  Heabily."

"Harm, that's not a solution."

He sighs again, this time punctuating the gesture with a fit of coughing.  "No, but ib would probably make me feel a whole lob bebber."

"No, it wouldn't.  That would be a temporary fix at best and you know it, and it's not the way to deal with your problems.  Believe me."

"Di know.  You're right.  Dime sorry."

"Frankly, you're assuming a lot of facts not in evidence, Harm," I say gently.  "We don't know for sure if they slept together, much less if Sergei is the father."

He nods.

"Not to mention, we don't know what Singer will decide to do with regards to how she wants to raise the baby; whether she will stay here at JAG HQ; what part, if Sergei _is_ the father, she wants him to play—much less you as the uncle.  I hate to say it, Harm, but it is her choice whether or not she even wants you to have a role in her child's life."

I can tell this idea has not occurred to him.  I hope he understands she may choose to do the same with Sergei and raise her child alone.

"As for a child with Singer's genes, if Sergei is the father, then half of those genes are his, too.  And we both know Sergei's a pretty great person.  He is half Rabb after all," I say with a smile.  "So there's _some_ hope."  Harm smiles a little and takes my hand in his.  It's warm from gripping his mug of hot chocolate, and slightly rough and calloused from use, and much larger than mine but I still maintain there is nothing more perfect than his hand holding mine.

"Right now, the ball's in Singer's court," I continue, enveloping his hand between both of mine.  "The fact is we may never know who the father is because she may never tell, and that's her right."  Harm opens his mouth to object, but I beat him to the punch.

"_If_ the baby is Sergei's, I would hope she would do the responsible thing and tell him, but even then, it's her choice to do so.  There's really nothing you can do, Harm," I conclude softly.

"Di just don't know whab possessed him to eben go out wib her.  Di mean, whab does he see in her?"

"Maybe it's a Rabb thing," I muse.

"Whab do you mean?" he asks, frowning.  

"Well," I begin, pausing to consider how I might phrase this delicately, "Bitchy blondes."

Both eyebrows leap to his hairline.  "Darr you referring to Renee?" he asks.  "Renee wabs nice.  You just had to geb to know her."

"Hmm.  Well, you have to admit her initial impression didn't make her too many friends.  And, as I recall, you didn't seem to be all that big a fan of her either.  In fact, I think I recall somebody going out of his way to avoid her at all costs."

"Well, di…"

"But yet, a few months down the line and you're in a committed relationship with her."

He shifts uncomfortably and picks up his spoon with his free hand.

"So obviously you saw something there that the rest of us—" I'm treading on thin ice here, so I better choose my words carefully—"that the rest of us couldn't see past our initial impression.  Maybe Sergei—if what you believe is true—saw something in Loren that the rest of us have been unable to see."

He looks faintly sickened by the notion.  

"Maybe," I venture further, "deep down, buried under all the cunning and ambition and ruthless drive, there's a side to Singer that some may actually find…appealing."

"Singer?!" he exclaims, staring at me as if I just sprouted fur and fangs.

"Okay, so it may be a bit of a stretch," I concede, receiving another look from Harm, who shakes his head and tightens his grip on my hand.  "But, anything's possible," I point out.

He considers for a long moment.  

"She sebuced hib."

***********

"Here, open up, I want to stick this in."

He looks up from unbuttoning his shirt (he's taking his sweet time getting to the good stuff) and I almost _see_ the jaws clamp shut.

"Harm, I want to take your temperature."

He shakes his head no.

"Look, it's either orally or you know where, but I _will _take your temperature one way or the other.  I'm just being nice by letting you choose, but if you don't want to…" I shrug, and quickly rip a dozen or so hairs off his arm.

"Ow!" Deftly I slip the thermometer in under his tongue.

"There.  I knew you could be reasonable," I smile beatifically and pat his shoulder.  He rubs the bright red spot on his arm.

"Quibe a beside manner you hab there, Nurse Hatchet."

"Thank you.  Now, no talking for three minutes."  I smile again and leave him to finish changing clothes.  "And leave that in," I instruct, turning to see Harm quickly placing his hand back at his side.

I fix him with another warning look.  "Don't make me come back in here to check on you."  Make me, please make me.  Give me good cause to.  I haven't seen him in boxers in so long I hardly remember the image.  Okay, so that's not completely true.  I can pretty well conjure it up any time I allow my imagination to fixate on him, but…stop it!  Just stop it!  You are here to take care of your sick friend, Colonel.  Not to take advantage of your sick friend.  

_Friend_, I repeat.  Oh, who are you kidding with that, too, MacKenzie?  "You have two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, squid."

He nods and unbuckles his pants.  I turn away and head to the living room before I compromise said friend.

Glancing around the apartment, I realize something is not in order.  Hearing Harm approach behind me, I ask, "Where's your tree?  And your Christmas decorations?"

I look at him questioningly, taking in his dark sweatpants and white T-shirt, and thermometer still amazingly where I left it in his mouth.  He opens his mouth to reply--"Wait!  Hold that thought," I interrupt, pulling the thermometer out of his mouth and turning it until I can see the mercury.

"100."  I hold the thermometer aloft, as though it's crucial evidence.  "You have a fever."

"So?" he returns, suppressing a cough and only half succeeding.  "I habn't hab time to geb my tree up and ebrything.  Dive felt like crap for the past few days."  And unless there's a little bit of prodding, Harm is usually slow to get into the Christmas spirit.  He's not quite a scrooge, but I know Christmas always reminds Harm of what he lost all those years ago in 1969 and the pain of subsequent Christmases, without knowing what happened and yet hoping for a Christmas miracle, before hope and expectation faded away to numbness. 

Usually, around the beginning of December, if there's no girlfriend to do it, I start dropping hints and encouraging him to take up the festive spirit and get a tree and some lights and some popcorn and cocoa and we'll make a night of trimming the tree.  I was quite happy to take up the tradition again last year after a several year reprieve.  

He always grumbles about having to dig out bulbs and string up lights and put up a tree but I know he enjoys sharing the activity with me.  It gives him a feeling of peace and…normalcy that the holiday rarely provides him.  

"All the more reason for you to rest," I reply firmly, glancing around his living space and coming to a decision. 

"Dime lible to hab nightmares, now," he mutters under his breath.  "My brudder anb—" 

 "Where do you keep your Christmas decorations and such?" I interrupt before we get started down that road again.

"Storage roob.  Anb there are a few new thinbs in a bag by my desk.  Why?"

"Never mind that.  You, Commander, are going to about face and haul your six into that bed, where you will _not_ move for a period of no less than two hours.  If you move from that bed, I'll be forced to get physical, sailor, and trust me, you won't like it.  Now, good night, and pleasant dreams."

I place a kiss impulsively on his flushed cheek, removing the scowl of annoyance that surfaced at being summarily dismissed and ordered about.  At his surprised look, I shrug and explain with an impish smile, "I told you I do a great Florence Nightengale impression."

"Hm," he murmurs with a slightly dazed look on his face.  I can't tell if it's because he's so tired and sick, or the onslaught of the medication he took is still wreaking havoc on his system, or if it's because of such a simple thing like a kiss from me.

Oh, you're kidding yourself, MacKenzie.

But as he walks away, quietly humming a very nasal rendition of "Physical" I'm left wondering.

Just what is it that goes on in that mind of his?


	4. Chapter Three Part 2Conclusion

AN:  You all thought it would never happen.  That I would never finish this.  Frankly, I thought the same thing, so no hard feelings on my end.  But here it is.  For those of you with freakishly long memories, this picks up right where it left off (I think).  For the rest of you mere mortals (myself especially), I'll repost the first 3 parts, since I can't remember exactly where I left off, and it's been so long that I can't double check on voy.

P.S.  Thank you for being so patient.  

P.P.S.  I hope I don't get everyone's hopes up by posting this.  I am working on finishing "At Last", it's just coming along slowly.  _Verrrry_ slowly.  So bear with me.

CONCLUSION 

Apparently the same thing that goes on in _my_ mind, at least some of the time, if what I'm looking at is any indication.

I hold the item delicately in my hand and wonder just what he plans on doing with it.

Well, I mean, I'm pretty sure what he plans on doing with it.

Great minds think alike, after all.

Unless, he doesn't plan on doing it with me.

Oh dear.

Well, seize the opportunity, MacKenzie.  It's here.  It's unopened.  He obviously hasn't put whatever plans he has into effect, so here's your chance to make a few of your own.

**********

CHRISTMAS EVE

(2 weeks later)

I rap one more time for good measure before pulling out my key.  After a count of five, I slide it into the lock and let myself in.  The ever-present chill of his apartment immediately accosts me and I quickly decide that before anything else happens I'm going to turn up the heat.  Hearing it kick on, I quickly hang my coat and purse on a peg by the door and place the two plastic bags I'm carrying on his dining table.  

Chances are I've only beaten Harm by about fifteen or twenty minutes.  The admiral sidelined him after church and, given Singer's appearance at JAG earlier today—the first since we heard the astonishing news of her pregnancy (she's been on sick leave)—I can only imagine what the conversation was like.

Her official announcement at staff call certainly raised a few eyebrows and I wonder what Harm thinks about what she had to say.  With the holiday, and with now two junior attorneys out (though Singer returns to work after the new year) he and I were both incredibly busy and barely had time to say hello much less mull over the meaning and hidden messages embedded in Singer's cryptic statement.

I brush the topic away, even though I'm more than curious as to what the admiral had to say—and even more curious as to what Singer had to say to Harm when I saw them together by the elevator before she left—and concentrate on getting everything ready.

Plug in tree lights.  Check.

Put Harm's gift underneath tree.  Check.

String up the mistletoe I found a couple weeks ago among Harm's Christmas decorations.  

Needless to say, once I discovered it, it was subsequently hid.  Harm hasn't made any mention of its absence but about a week or so ago I came over to find him going through every bag, box and container he has, looking for something that he refused to name.  He did attempt a roundabout inquiry, but after about a half dozen vague answers from me he gave up the topic. 

We've had a bit of fun—nothing too serious or racy, or even too deep in the passionate zone—with a few mistletoes kisses.  Not too many, since neither of us wants to look like we're aiming for a kiss every time we argue over who has the right to my kitchen space.  But it wasn't too long after that first one at my apartment I found him a couple of days later tearing apart his.

I finish up with the last sprig, just as I hear the gate to the elevator noisily bang open and shut.  I jump down from my chair and take once last look around before shutting off the overhead lights and opening the door.

"Hi!" I say a little too brightly.  Harm looks up from the keys poised in his hand and smiles.

"Ah, you made it," he says, moving to step inside his apartment.  I stand firm at the doorway.

"Ahem."  

His brow furrows in confusion before noticing my discreet glance upward.

"Uh-_huh_," he says, eyeing those innocent-looking leafy greens before glancing at the equally innocent-looking and expectant smile on my face.  "Tell me something: was there a sale on mistletoe or will you find any excuse to kiss me?"

Thank God it's physically impossible to swallow your own tongue because I'm sure I would have just choked to death on mine.  Still, I manage to answer with the self-assured poise of a marine.

"I could ask you the same thing," I retort, hoping that the dim light of his apartment covers the flush I can feel racing up my neck.  "I found it with your Christmas decorations in that bag by your desk."

I see a flicker of a sheepish grin before he regains control of the conversation.  "Oh, you mean that bag you claimed to know nothing about?"

"I never explicitly said that."

"Hmph." He leans forward and presses his soft warm lips against mine.  It lasts just long enough to outrun the confines of friendship and ends just before I give in to my devilish side and really give him a kiss to remember.  

He releases my mouth and I realize we're both standing a lot closer to one another than we were.  His mouth hovers near mine, as though he's wrestling with the idea of whether to pursue another kiss or if it's best to just leave it alone for now.  That's what going through _my_ mind, at any rate, before he pulls away and I step back and allow him to enter.

I refuse to be disappointed.  

There's plenty of mistletoe hanging around.

**********

He sits close to me, closer than what he usually does, which is not to say we're wrapped in each others arms, just a nice brushing of shoulders.  Comfortably close.  Close enough that I could lay my head on his shoulder.  Close enough so I can smell the masculine scent of his cologne.  Close enough that I can see the dark stubble of his well-after-five o'clock shadow.  I can feel the heat of his body next to mine…

I realize he's talking and I force myself to listen and not get further distracted by his proximity.  He stares at the lights on the tree, pausing every once in a while to take a drink of his hot Dr. Pepper, or to poke at the slice of lemon floating around in it.  

In typical Harm fashion, he talks about everything except what is really on our minds, but for once the topic of avoidance is not our complicated relationship.  Finally, after a few random comments about the tree, the weather, Chaplain Turner's sermon, and his client's unwillingness to plead, I ask him the question that's been begging to be voiced since this morning.

"So what did she say?"

"Who?  Singer?"

Of course about Singer.  "Yes.  I saw you two talking by the elevator."

He stares down into his mug and sighs.  "Nothing of value, really.   She was vague and noncommittal."

I tuck both legs under me and lean against him.  He doesn't seem to mind.  We sit and enjoy the lights and the silence, and each other's company for a long moment.

"What did the admiral have to say?"

"Not much.  I don't think he knows anything more than anybody else does."

"Have you heard from Sergei?"

"No.  I imagine he's spending Christmas with his mother, so I won't hear from him until maybe New Year's."

"Did Singer give any indication that she had talked to him?"

"She didn't really give me any indication she had.  Or hadn't.  She really didn't give me much indication of anything, Mac."

"Well, it's what we expected."  He nods in agreement, but I can tell he's still disappointed.  We settle back into silence again, mine reflective, and Harm's bordering on brooding, before I decide to lighten the mood.

"So flyboy, what movie do you want to watch first?"

Harm groans and shifts in his seat on the couch, our shoulders and hips rubbing and bumping together.

"Don't start that stuff, Mac."

"Harm, it's tradition."

He groans again and gives me a rather pathetic plea with his eyes, but I refuse to be dissuaded.  No matter how endlessly green and soft, and intelligent, and beautiful, and soul jarring those jade orbs are.  

Hmm…there also appear to be green-blue specks in the iris, like the color of the ocean Harm loves so much.  And long black lashes framing his—

Something obstructs my view, and I notice a faint clicking sound in the background before I remember where I'm at, and who I'm with—and whose eyes I've been staring in like some wide-eyed, lovesick teenager.  And they call it puppy love.

"Uh, what?"  

Harm snaps his fingers, and I note their present location in my face and the corresponding click and realize with some embarrassment that Harm has been trying to get my attention for some time.

"Wh-what were you saying?"

"I didn't say anything, Mac.  You were the one talking before you just trailed off into outer space."

"Was I?"  I don't remember saying anything that didn't end with a punctuation mark.

"What was I saying?"  Puh-leeze God, don't let it be some spiel on the magical color of his eyes and the things they do to me.

"Just that you wanted me to get started on a little dinner."

"I said that?"

He nods, and quickly charters a course to the kitchen.

"Hey!  Weren't we talking about what mo—"

"No," he calls over his shoulder.

I find him busying himself with grabbing utensils and ingredients.  As he reaches for his refrigerator door, I head him off at the pass.

"As I was saying, I believe we were discussing what movie to watch first," allowing him to yank open the door and handing him a stick of butter and the eggs.

"What are these for?" 

"Cutout cookies."

He gives me a look and rolls his eyes.  "You and your sweet tooth, marine."  

"Tis the season," I reply sweetly.

"In the hunt for satisfying your never ending sugar fix, it's always open season."

 I ignore the remark and concentrate on the task at hand.  "Oh, here, you'll need another stick of butter."  I smile at the horrified expression on Harm's face and tug on the refrigerator door, but it doesn't budge.

"Here, the seal's just—" he reaches over me and gives it a hard yank, eliciting a popping sound and causing something from on top to float down.  I find another stick and turn to give it to Harm before I realize he's recovered the fallen item.  

Mistletoe.     

Whoops.  I forgot I placed one there.  

Our eyes meet, mistletoe between us before, and very slowly, Harm raises the hand holding it above our heads.  I've long since stopped breathing and just wait to see what will happen.  

A knock at the door interrupts whatever words or action we might have taken.  Harm sighs in annoyance and casts an apologetic glance at me before making his way to the door.

I take a moment while his back is turned and his attention is seemingly tuned on the door and whoever's on the other side of it to rally my thoughts and get my emotions under control.

Just because the Promised Land is in sight, doesn't mean I—we—I should go sprinting for it.  Knowing my—our—my luck, I'll step in some gopher hole before I get five strides into my run and wind up in the dirt flat on my stomach with a sprained ankle and seriously wounded pride.

"Sturgis."

The sound of Harm's voice snaps me back to the present and I hear Sturgis reply, in a polite but obviously curious tone, "Sorry to bother you, Harm.  I hope I'm not interrupting."  He looks around Harm to give me a nod of greeting.  His eyes narrow at some point on the floor to the left of me.  When I follow his gaze, I realize he's found the sprig of mistletoe.

Oh…crap.  Oh well.

I don't start feeling uncomfortable until he steps in and looks up, and notices the sprig hanging over the threshold.  I feel my neck grow warm again as he casts a fleeting glance between Harm and I and somehow manages to catch sight of yet another bunch of mistletoe hanging over the kitchen island.  Really, I didn't think there were that many.

(Harm certainly hasn't complained.)

Thank goodness Harm, quite his usual clueless self, steps in and halts any further accusatory looks.

"Was there something you needed, Sturg?"

"As a matter of fact, there is.  I was hoping to get through the holiday without having to come bother you, but I need to ask a favor, buddy."

"Name it," Harm replies easily.  I ponder the idea that perhaps he's being so easygoing because he's hoping to get rid of Sturgis faster, but then again it's Harm's nature to be easygoing.  

"Do you still have that old reel-to-reel player?"

"Yeah.  It's in my storage room.  Still runs great, though.  I had it out a couple of months ago."

"Perfect.  I need to borrow it, if you don't mind."

"Sure, no problem.  Let me grab the key to the storage room and I'll get it."

"Thanks, Harm."

Harm grabs a key out of a bowl sitting on the bookshelf by the door, gives each of us a brief smile, and disappears out the door and down the hallway.  We both listen to his footsteps fading away before we turn to the other.  

"So, are you—"

"Sorry again for the –"

"I'm sorry—"

"You go—"

"Wait.  You first," I manage to get in.

"Sorry to ruin your evening, Mac," Sturgis repeats in his smooth baritone, but there's just enough inflection to give me pause as to his absolute sincerity.  Not that I'd accuse Sturgis of being a saboteur and a liar, but he sounds a bit…amused.

And a tad accusatory.

"Oh, that's all right," I reply airily.  "Harm and I were just getting ready to make some cutout cookies.  

"Were you?"  Again, that tone.

"Yesss."

"Hm."

I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at him, but he pretends not to notice, and instead focuses his attention on the mistletoe hanging above the island.

"I take it Harm's feeling much better.  From his cold, I mean," he adds nonchalantly.  

All right, Sturgis.

"Yes, he's back to his old self."

"I don't know.  Seems like some things are different."  He picks the sprig of mistletoe off the floor and places it on the counter ledge.  

"So, what do you need a reel-to-reel player for?"  I reply, deciding I'm not going to even touch that one.  

"A little Christmas gift for my dad."

"Kind of last minute."

"Well, I wasn't sure if it was the right gift or the right time, but I think it will wind up being a good choice."

"What are—"

"Found it!" Harm announces triumphantly, indicating a large black case, covered in dust.  He sets it carefully on the ground and attempts to wipe off the dust with a few sweeps of his hand.

"Thanks, buddy."

"No problem."

"I'll try to get it back to you as soon as—"

"Don't worry about it, Sturgis.  I know you'll give it back."

"Thanks again, Harm.  Sorry for interrupting your evening."

"No problem," I reply as Harm follows Sturgis to the door.  Just short of it, Sturgis turns abruptly to Harm, who stops just as suddenly.

"If you don't mind I'll see myself out."

"Sure," Harm accedes in bewilderment.

"No offense, but I'd rather not engage in holiday tradition with you."  He tips his head to indicate the mistletoes hanging over the entryway.  "I doubt you'd find the activity anywhere near as enjoyable with me as with the colonel.  Bye, Mac."  

********

I pull the blanket covering me tighter to my body and rest my head on Harm's shoulder.  I let out a contented sigh as the credits for _It's a Wonderful Life_ role, pondering if my own life equals the fulfillment that George has.  Perhaps.  It's certainly closer to it than in years past.

"It's warm in here," Harm comments, indicating the deep thoughts he's currently engaged in.  "Did you turn the heat up?"

"It was cold," I reply defensively.

"_You_ were cold," he corrects.

"So what if I was?"

"You want another blanket or anything?"

"No.  I'm fine."  I could stay here all night, but it's already pretty late—going on midnight—and Chloe will probably be calling early, if Christmases past are any indication.

We don't say anything for a long moment, both of us watching the credits roll past until nothing's left but a blue screen, and even that plays for quite a few seconds before Harm sighs resignedly and shuts off the VCR.

I've about convinced myself that I must get up and leave my warm and comfortable spot on the couch next to Harm now if I'm ever to even attempt to make it home tonight, when he leans his head against mine and all such going home nonsense is scrapped immediately.

I'm almost ashamed to admit how thrilled I am when he places a kiss on my head before pulling me tighter to him.

All in all, this is shaping up to be our best Christmas yet.

"Well, Mac, did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?"

"Nearly.  It's not over yet."

"No, it isn't," he agrees.

"I know the reason I don't see my gift from you under the tree is that it's too big to fit under there, right?"

He chuckles.  "Maybe."

"How about you?  Did you get everything you wanted?"

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, I might be an uncle, something I never even dreamed of until I knew I had a brother and even then I thought it would be a while before I had a little nephew.  But then again, if I _am_ an uncle, it's because Singer slept with my brother.  Ugh."

"Well, okay, did you get anything else of a decidedly less ambiguous nature that you wanted?"

"Well, I did finally get rid of that stupid cold."

Argh.  The man is hopeless.

"Oh, and spend the evening with you and an abundant supply of mistletoe."

My lips part in a wide smile.  "There weren't that many," I reply, trying to quell the sensation to bury my face in Harm's shoulder.  He snorts.

"Really?  Then I'm kind of curious as to what the one in my shower means."

"I had extra."

"Mm-hmm."

Okay, so maybe you did buy a bag too many, MacKenzie.

"So what do you think we should do next, marine?"

"I suppose I should get my things together and head home."

"Yeah, I suppose it's about that time," he agrees.

Neither of us makes a move.

"Of course," Harm adds as nonchalantly as possible, it's almost time for Santa to be stopping by.  We could stay up and see if he comes."

I feel my mouth stretch into an even wider grin than before.

"That sounds like a good idea," I reply, settling back into my comfortable position from earlier.

"I've got an even better one."

"Oh yeah?"

"I know how we can pass the time while we wait."

"How?"  I pull away to look at him, and find a fairly mischievous look in his eyes, which immediately makes me wary.

He produces a sprig of mistletoe and holds it over our heads between us.  I stare at it for a long moment before daring to look at him.

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"You up for it, marine?"

*********

THE END


End file.
